


Grow-Lance-er!

by Emeka



Category: Growlanser (Video Games)
Genre: Begging, Biting, Blood, Established Relationship, Foot Fetish, Half-Sibling Incest, Kinktober 2018, Knifeplay, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Spanking, clean not stinky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-08-24 10:12:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16637972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emeka/pseuds/Emeka
Summary: Kinktober 2018 works for Growlanser





	1. Carmaine/Justin: deep-throating

It hadn't been anything too unusual for him. At the moment, Carmaine has little idea that he'll be the one known as a savior of light, the Growlanser, but heroic work is becoming increasingly common for him. When he returned Melfy's bracelet to her, that's all it had been, without any expectation of return.

That's not to say that he refuses compensation. Being rewarded is fine. So when Justin implied one ("I've really gotta get you back for this! Why don't we meet at the inn?") it had been alright with him. His libido also plays a little into it; handsome men are nice to look at, and Justin is fairly handsome.

Some background part of his mind goes through a 'sexy reward' scenario, mostly for its own amusement. Naturally he doesn't _really_ expect anything of the sort. 

So once they are alone together, with Justin's hand on his forearm and his breath against his ear murmuring a few suggestions, he is genuinely surprised and a little unsure. Imagining something is one thing, but for his first sexual experience with another person, having it in an inn with a stranger is daunting.

He nods his head, though. No matter when his first is, he'll feel nervous about it. And this won't even be an 'entire' first, going by the things Justin is suggesting; hands, mouth, whichever way you like.

"Your mouth," Carmaine starts then stops, hands on his zipper. "If it's not too much."

Justin smiles brightly, as if this is exactly the 'no big deal' he says it is. Of the two, it's the one he's most curious about. Being with a stranger would probably make even a hand-job exciting, but at its base he imagines it isn't that different from masturbating.

Justin kneels before him, hands on his legs. The posture would look prim, if not for the still sunny look on his face. It's reassuring that he looks so cheerful about this. "On your mark."

Carmaine lowers his pants just enough that he can fish himself out of his underwear. He gets to feel shy about his anxiously half-hard dick for maybe a second before Justin has his hands on it. There's a general feeling of niceness; that it feels good, that it (and him, by extension) is accepted so readily, and with evident goodwill. He relaxes a little, and leans back against the wall. His penis seems to lengthen with each stroke until it's fully erect.

Justin sucks gently at the tip--the feeling so small but new that Carmaine has to muffle a moan into his hand. The look Justin gives him, a little sly this time, doesn't help. He's probably coming off as the complete virgin he is, but... wriggling a little, sighing, feels better than trying to be stoic, as more of him is swallowed in bit by bit, where it's so warm and wet.

Even doing something that to Carmaine seems innately kind of silly, Justin looks natural, even graceful. The way his lashes settle on his cheek, the rolling in and out of his lips with his head movements, even the bulging of one cheek or the other... he doesn't just feel good, he _looks_ good.

Halfway in there's a little resistance, but Justin only pauses a little before continuing. Carmaine realizes with some alarm that he's being taken around some throttle-point, right into his throat--can he breathe? Yes; he sees the concentrated fluctuations of his nostrils. As long as he keeps as still as he has, there shouldn't be any problems.

It gets harder not to even squirm now, because the clenching of the back of Justin's throat, where his gag reflex is, feels amazing as it squeezes down his length. Nevermind the sheer tightness of the throat itself. 

Every sensation fans a heat in his lower belly. Carmaine carefully strokes Justin's hair, not to pull, push, or startle. The bobbed strands gather together then fall back into place, like a straight-edged curtain. "What do I do... when...?"

Justin makes a 'uh-uh' noise (wow, the vibrato from it) that sounds negatory, so nothing, maybe. Let him handle everything... he's so close his nose is touching his pubic hair. Probably when he comes it'll all just shoot down his throat.

Something about that thought really does it. He's going to practically deposit his come right into his belly, no muss no fuss, just zip up his saliva-sodden cock and no one will know any different. He's never not had a tissue for clean-up before.

It is so hard not to move when he comes. His whole body tenses to keep it still, and Justin does the same; even his fingers press and hold into his thighs until it's done. Then he very slowly, almost lovingly, pulls away, little strands of spit for a moment connecting his lips to Carmaine's glans.

"I missed that," Justin says, knuckling off the drool on his chin. "So much." He seems to muse about something for a moment, but when he looks at Carmaine he is as bright-eyed as ever. "Thanks for that, and before."

Carmaine shrugs awkwardly. "No problem?" He starts to offer some sort of reciprocation, but Justin is already getting to his feet and brushing his knees off, with the air of someone who has finished some piece of business. Secretly he feels somewhat relieved--he'd hate to display his lack of experience after that bit of showmanship.

"You're kind of cute. We'll do this again sometime, yeah?" he says then, shaking his hand. 

Carmaine numbly nods and agrees. The friendly atmosphere is nice but a little at odds with his first experience, or at least his expectations for it. A little tenderer--but a 'sexy reward' scenario isn't really the place for intimacy, is it? "That sounds nice. I'm, uh... looking forward to it," he finishes lamely.

"So am I. And at that time," Justin leans in close, whispering against his ear, "I think we'll get to know each other much better."

Carmaine's face burns up in an instant in contrast to the cool metal he feels in his palm; money, probably, as a cover for what gratitude he received.

They leave together to rejoin their respective friends. Justin cheerfully greets his (Carmaine tries to make nothing of the suspicious look she gives him, as she was already doing that) and Carmaine mumbles something to his with a show of the palm.

"He's just shy about being thanked," Louise knowingly tells Tippi. "He's kind of cute like that." 

Carmaine ducks his head between his shoulders and walks off.


	2. Crevanille/Vallery: begging

"Ask," Vallery says before each touch, like it's not killing him too. 

Crevanille plays along and asks, because Vallery's smile is too handsome to say no to, and because he wants all of this, frustration included.

"Please," he murmurs between smothering kisses. Please, he appeals for permission to strip himself then Vallery (yes to the latter, no need for the former; Vallery does that himself). Please, please, touch me here, or let me touch you. Not just his body and the defined musculature of his body, but his _hair_ , god he has so much of it he wants to run his fingers through it all then wrap it around his hand to _pull_. Maybe later.

Vallery is permissive. The asking itself is gesture enough. And on Crevanille's part, the asking itself is erotically humiliating enough.

The first time he hears a no, it's so unexpected he doesn't really hear it at first. "What?" he says disbelievingly.

"No," Vallery repeats, even though they are so close he can feel his erection pressing against him. At this point along, how can he bear it?

"Please," he says again. "Please fuck me. Fuck me." The swearing is just a last ditch effort, so he's not surprised that Vallery shakes his head and smiles.

They kiss until his lips feel bruised. Every touch on his skin feels like fire adding to the heat already inside him. Their bodies pressed together are too hot. "Please, please."

"Beg, then maybe..."

"Please," he says as steadily as he can. "I need it, give it to me."

Vallery exhales against his neck, fingers pressing hard into Crevanille's hip. "Keep going."

"I need your cock in me--I need you more than I've ever needed anyone--" he pauses, tensing a moment for Vallery to press into him. Careful, slow, but driven with Vallery's hard weight behind it. "God, that's perfect, _you're_ perfect."

"Crevanille..."

"Please, I love you, I love you." Every inch feels more and more amazing inside him. "Please..."

"Don't stop."

Crevanille murmurs and moans a near-chant of loving begging as he's fucked slow and sweet into the mattress. He can't find a good place to keep his limbs; he feels so good it's hard to keep still.

He's eager to have his orgasm the moment he feels it rising inside his belly. He needs it, he's worked so hard to have it, been so patient. Even through it he continues brokenly pleading, because the last thing he wants is to stop right in the middle. 

"I was good, right?" Vallery asks afterwards, hands cradling the side of his face. He looks unsure. Crevanille presses his cheek into one palm then the other.

"Perfect. It was just how I thought it would be."


	3. Orpheus/Vincent: knifeplay

“Is it really alright?”

Orpheus smiles gently, as though he’s calling him the worrywart Vincent knows he’s being. “If I can’t handle this, how do you expect me to fight?”

“If there’s anything, anything at all,” he says against Orpheus’ throat, “tell me.” He can feel his pulse beneath his lips, as faint and rapid as a bird’s.

It’s not fair to Orpheus to think of him as delicate, but he is still very careful as he opens up the his shirt. He likes him this way best, as a frame for his pale chest and what he’s about to do to it.

He cuts slowly. Not because he thinks it makes it easier (he thinks the opposite, actually) but so he can better enjoy the sight. Blood blooms up in little beads behind the knife he uses for this, the cut skin turning stark white then an irritated red. Orpheus sighs after each line and arches his back--almost asking for it.

Vincent’s fingers tremble despite himself. It’s so much harder to cut someone with a hard-on, even with just these little marks. Battle is more detached.

He carefully sets the blade away when Orpheus is panting, and his chest looks like a cat used it to take-off on. He can feel him touching himself beneath him, between their bodies, and approves. If he can do that, he’s probably alright.

Blood and sweat fill his mouth as he cleans up after himself. Two different flavors of salt, one warm and heady, the other musky. The idea of coming on his chest has occurred to him, but he doesn’t want to risk it with the open wounds. This is the only indulgence he’ll allow himself, as the intimacy ties the experience together, though he keeps the image in mind. Cleaning Orpheus up by tongue, staunching the blood, and feeling a hand in his hair or digging into his shoulder, the other working furiously between them, the belabored sound of his breathing growing heavier and heavier until--

he keens out his name, body stuttering and pressing skin hard to his mouth. Vincent keeps his mouth latched on as his stiff body gradually relaxes back down. 

He slowly kisses Orpheus on his forehead, cheek, the corner of his mouth, noting his hectic flush atop the pallor. Then lays his cheek on his spit-soaked lined chest, feeling the minute roughness of the torn skin, and tends to his own pressing erection. He imagines his semen on Orpheus again, white mingling with the red, of course on his wounded chest but also on his pretty cheeks. The image seems larger than life in his mind, something symbolic, but what, he’s not sure. Maybe it has only taken on undue importance due to his reliance on it to get off.

It doesn’t fail him this time either. His cock pulses in his grip and shoots off probably all over Orpheus’ pants. He does their laundry when they’re alone anyway, so he’s not bothered by it.

Orpheus strokes his hair as they cuddle. He feels sweaty and warm, kind of gross, but likes that he feels this way. It’s exertion, a job well done. And there is no job he likes doing better than this one.


	4. Wein/Wolfgang: spanking

"Ask," Wein feels more than hears against his ear. Warm breath and stubble. A shiver runs up his spine. Ask. Make a deliberate choice that this is what he wants, instead of quietly going along like he had the previous times they fooled around.

"Please," he says clearly, despite the embarrassment. If he doesn't do it well enough, Wolfgang will make him repeat it anyway. "Spank me."

He holds on, arms tight around Wolfgang's neck, face in the crook. They're not that far apart in age, yet everything about him feels different. So much bigger. Muscular. Even his smell is deep and musky. And his hands, going down the small of Wein's back into the waistband of his pants, are hard and broad.

It makes Wein feel smaller, not quite grown. Like some debutante. That's part of the attraction he's felt for him since the beginning. Opposites. The other... is it their consanguinity? It isn't one-sided, since this is happening, so maybe it was their genetics calling to each other, like to like.

His pants are pushed down to make room as Wolfgang's hands lower over his ass. The urge to move is great. He's never gotten this physical with anyone, let alone his half-brother. They've side-stepped around this electricity between them for the longest time, and only moved on to juvenile groping and kissing. In the grand scheme of things this isn't a big deal either, but... just his underwear! Between their skin! On his butt!

Wolfgang kneads one cheek, high and low, down to the crease connecting it to his leg. "Underwear. Yes or no?" The words are spoken in a soft rumble into his hair.

He could leave. Wolfgang won't stop him. But. Does he really want this?

He does. That's what's making him so jittery. Wants it bad, even though he shouldn't. "No."

"No, for what?"

"My... my underwear. Spank me bare."

This time Wolfgang's fingers slide down his boxer-briefs, calluses dragging, skin too hot on his own. His underwear follows his pants to puddle around his knees. It makes things awkward up front. Wolfgang doesn't acknowledge it, but he can feel himself pressing against him. 

"Ready?"

He smiles a little. "Ready."

The first whap comes down quick, like a flash of lightning. Only on one cheek, but his entire butt goes numb for a few seconds. Then the heat and pain creep into the affected side. He holds on tight, tight, and waits for it to fade.

Another smack lands on his other buttcheek the instant he begins to relax. The same process repeats. His ass already feels like it's burning. It tingles. It hurts. Nothing feels directly 'good' but energy of some kind is flowing through his body. Even without looking, he knows he's gotten harder.

The next blow comes down between the first two; right on top his anus. And _that_ feels good, so much so he actually moans. It's like the impact vibrates right through his body into his cock.

"Good?" Wolfgang asks, but Wein barely gurgles a yes before he continues a steady tempo on the same spot.

His rhythm is fast enough that the pleasure layers, not so fast that it's indistinct. Each wave punctuated by another spank. Wein feels it mounting but cannot really believe he's about to come until he's tipping over the edge.

He holds tight, moaning in his throat. Wolfgang spanks him through it to the end, where he is once again unsure what to say. What a mess. It feels like a sticky flood.

He pulls away a little, enough to capture his brother's face in his hands, and kiss his chin and lips, until the scruff leaves his skin red. Sorry.


	5. Wein/Ernest: feet

Ernest kisses him when he visits, and, if the mood is particularly amorous, sends him to bathe. Sometimes he still adds, “I’m not that kind of pervert” to it, half-defensively. Wein rolls his eyes to that but whatever helps him sleep at night.

He washes up slow, careful, poking inbetween his toes. He could eat a salad and vinaigrette off them by the time he's done. And they're all he needs to wash but it's only when the water starts to go lukewarm that he leaves, the better to keep a blanket of warmth over him. Because out on the floor that he knows has been just washed for him, for this purpose, he does not dress.

The air is cool. It glides over his warm wet skin as he walks. He feels clean and proper, and more aware of it than he ever does except in this room. 

Old, flat cushions are set up against the headboard like a budget throne for him. Even the way Ernest looks away and to him--wanting but somewhat ashamed, like he is looking at someone well and truly above him, lends to the atmosphere.

Wein wonders if he ever looked at Richard or Kenshin like this. Is he only looking at him like this now because it's new between them? Wein does not typically consider himself a jealous person but he feels it's sting when he thinks about their past relationship, the one some part of his mind still refers to 'Ernest's real love', that warm threesome. Ernest, Richard, Kenshin.

He can be a good boyfriend, too. He doesn't mind that Ernest and Kenshin still see each other. He makes no (serious) mention of his insecurity in what feels like stepping into Richard's place. And he can certainly handle a foot fetish.

He reclines, feet stretching out, toes spreading. Ernest cradles a heel in his palms, as carefully as if it were an egg instead. "Can I..."

"Whatever you like," Wein replies, eager, too eager, what an amateur but Ernest's nose is on the line of his toes too fast for any more inner groaning. He pauses, inside and out, trying to discern what he feels, what he even expected it to be like. It tickles a little, when each exhale blows into his arch. He doesn't think the image does anything for him, either.

But Ernest inhales his pink-white toes with such aggressive enjoyment, that that, he can appreciate. "Can I?" Ernest asks again, and again he says yes because he at least wants to be equal to if not more than.

He licks and sucks on his toes, and it feels too weird, too foreign, to feel either good or ticklish. His eyes close, increasing the posture of devotion. 

Wein is not _exactly_ sure what to do with himself for this. His other foot ventures out until the pad presses against hard, slick leather. Lean thigh muscle beneath. His toes curl into it, and Ernest's shakey sigh emboldens him into following it in, in, to his groin.

Ernest's eyes half-open to gaze up at him. The crimson burns against the backdrop of his pale skin, beneath the snowy lashes. His lips wordlessly mouths something, lower lip catching on Wein's big toe. Can I?

"Yes."

A zipper whispers. Part of Wein wants to look, partly doesn't from a sense of strange embarrassment. He'd been a little shy their first night together, too, but he'd think this would be a little different. Nothing is getting put into him. 

Warm cockflesh slides over his arch, not much pressure. Still the skin is so thin there's a peculiar spearing feeling as if it might penetrate, if it didn't end up on his pad, his toes. A thin line of moisture lines the path before and behind it, wherever it goes. The more of that wetness there is, the harder Ernest humps his foot, until it really feels like he's fucking it. 

The sight of his knitted brow drives the undefined heat in Wein's groin. The physicality of his body heaving against his transfers, and even though he's not into the rest of it, he's glad to see him enjoy himself. If he closes his eyes, it's like an indirect form of sex.

Ernest jerks to a halt, breath and hips stuttering. Come overflows on the insides of his toes, and drips down to the heel. He can feel the faintly warm strands even over his calluses.

"You made a mess," Wein says awkwardly, eyes squeezing open and closed. Can't walk on the floor like this to clean himself off. Or maybe that's part of it too? But his heel is hoisted up to mouth-level and he wishes he could see it from here, the delicate reverence with which he is cleaned off.


	6. Eliotte/Wein: biting

“I’ll be counting on you,” Eliotte said, smiling, the day he knighted him as an Imperial Knight.

Wein’s heart filled with longing, lightened by the expectations placed on him. This is what he’s always wanted. His soverign is relying on him from here on out, to act as his knight, his ambassador, his will.

And other things he’s heard, rumors about Richard and his Knights, Eliotte and Kenshin. Things that made his mind race while he was tucked in safe and warm and his bed, because a good knight wants to be a comfort to his king in all respects. And Eliotte is young… even younger than him, only a few years now into his rule.

A few months pass as they all get used to each other, and Wein to his duties. He can feel them appraising him. Anticipation is killing him. He masturbates every night because otherwise when he is finally called upon, he’ll shoot his load in a second.

Eliotte calls for him via messenger--if it is no bother to you, please come--while Kenshin is away on other business. This has to be the night. Wein nods his way past the guards and enters the king’s sitting room. It’s not as lavish as he’d expect, but Eliotte doesn’t strike him as that type. There’s a table with opposing couches, a fine fireplace, but no one besides him. He closes the door behind himself and waits uncertainly. The moment the lock clicks shut, he hears a voice from deeper within the suite.

“Come here.”

Like a dog, he goes, in hopes of a bone.

His king is perched on the edge of his bed, knees primly together underneath a lacy nightgown. His face is flushed but his eyes are filled with a hungry intensity. “It’s good to see you, Wein. There’s something I must discuss with you.”

“Yes, my Lord?” Look him right in the eye. Don’t think about how perfect his little pink toes are, digging into the rug. “What of…?”

“Reaves and I have a certain arrangement. Perhaps you already know something of it?” He tilts his head, brow knitting slightly. 

Wein lowers himself to his knees and takes one of Eliotte’s hands in his. His lips brush against the knuckles. “I am honored.”

Eliotte raises his hand up to his face. Wein follows, lips reluctantly parting, before laying them on the pair in front of him. They feel delicately juicy, like they’d burst with too much pressure.

It’s so unreal. Are they really touching skin to skin? After all this time, all this wanting... 

He lays him down on the bed with all proper chivalry, still hand in hand. His only previous experience is with his academy friend, Max. Will it be enough? Can he really compare to his colleague?

All he has going for him is himself, he decides. His inexperience might not be such a bad thing, while it lasts. Thinking of it that way, they feel more equal, and it gives him courage. He explores more at his leisure the things he’s thought about for what feels forever. Eliotte’s thighs are as soft as he imagined, his hands leaner and callused (him being romantic—of course he’s an able fencer), and altogether so so warm.

Eliotte sighs pleasantly often at his ministrations, and speaks between them of how glad he is they’ve gotten to know each other, how long he’s waited for this moment, and how well they’ll all fit in together. It’s only when Wein finally slips inside him that he quiets, by occupying his mouth with something else. His lips press longingly to his shoulder in time with each thrust, too open-mouthed to be exactly a kiss. The hard edge of his teeth waits beneath. They don’t fully reveal themselves until the end, with a sting that melds so well into Wein’s climax he barely notices it.

In the afterglow, Eliotte sleepily apologizes. Wein assures him that it’s fine.

He looks over the dotted crescent on his shoulder in the morning as he dresses. There’s slight bruising and redness where the canines would have dug in. He decides he likes it; it’s a mark of favor from his king. Now that they are comrades in every sense, he’ll have to compare with Kenshin.


	7. Merklich/Rukias: praise kink

The most adorable thing about Rukias, Merklich has decided, is the way he pretends to not want to be praised.

Something outrageously cute about the flip of his head when he tells him how well he did in that last battle... the obstinate scoff. As concerned as he is with becoming strong, Merklich had thought at first he’d be happier, but in the end decides he likes this better. It makes him want to spoil him even more than if he was a more docile child.

So he keeps on doing it, and little by little, he sees him ease into it, like a stray cat that flees slower each time when you approach. They have of course grown closer over time, and that familiarity works better than any amount of repetition. Maybe he starts to take his praise at face-value, instead of something empty. Or maybe, liking him more, it flusters him.

That Rukias could be flustered by anything out of _his_ mouth, is intriguing. This is, after all, the little boy who has stared down everything else in his way.

It really makes him want to see how much more flustered he can get him.

In the early days of their adventure they all kept their separate rooms when staying at inns. The expanding of their group, combined with the smaller towns they frequently go to, have necessitated sharing with members of the same sex. Typically two to a one, conveniently enough. It’s only proper that a young boy stay in the same room with the man he has known the longest.

“You looked so cool today! You’re really impressive.” He lays it on a little, as they undress for night. Rukias goes at his own leisurely pace while he’s already done and done; the wound on his chest makes him feel too vulnerable to have bared to the air.

Rukias shrugs a little, but it’s the most effort he puts into looking disinterested. The pleased little smile tells a man everything he needs to know.

The mood feels safe enough that he doesn’t fear more than a mild reprimand if he gets in close... just enough to admire, not to be lecherous. Of course. Rukias’ back feels so smooth and warm beneath his hand that it’s hard not to go wild and just squeeze him everywhere. The impressions of muscles slightly marking his back, and making his arms more than perfectly straight, make him even cuter. Because all this time he really has been trying his best, but he’s still a boy, with a boy’s body.

“You’ve really grown up.”

Rukias quickly glances at him, some of that wariness shining hard for a second. Don’t make fun of me, the look says, before it melts into relative softness. “If you keep talking to me like that...”

“Then what? You’ll get mad? Or you’ll fall in love?”

A flippant joke because he’s too dumb to help himself, but it doesn’t push Rukias off the edge into being annoyed like he thought it would. His shoulderblades jerk slightly inward, stiffening, and Merklich thinks, _ah_.

“Well, even if you did, I could do a lot worse. I mean... you’re my kind of ideal.” He glides his hands slowly down on either side of his spine’s shallow valley. The faint light in the room adds the tiniest highlights where bone presses against the skin. “Smart, serious, reliable... strong. I can always count on you to save me, can’t I?”

“I’m not a kid, y’know,” and even though Merklich can’t see his face, he can guess his expression by the waver in his voice. “You can’t treat me like one.”

“I’d never. You really are important to me.”

Rukias presses back into his hands and turns. “Merklich,” he almost whispers, his face more nakedly vulnerable than he has ever seen it before, mouth slightly parting, coming undone along with his mastery of himself. “Tell me...”

“You’re perfect. You’re perfect.” 

He’s not sure he’s the one who starts the kiss, but it is fiercely mutual in a matter of seconds. Their inexperience combines into butting noses and teeth, as clumsy as their blind walk over to a piece of furniture to sit on. It’s one of the beds they land in, but it could have just as well been the couch or the table as far as he’s concerned. His spine pops quietly in protest at leaning over so far.

Everything presses tightly together. Rukias lands on top but he’s not shy about keeping away, and if Merklich can feel him, it definitely goes the other way around.

He praises his boldness—so brave!--but barely has any words when Rukias reaches between them. The intense way he’s looking at him now, searching for something, doesn’t help; but he knows what he wants, and has to hang on for that. To give him the approval he’s looking for.

So brave, so sweet, you feel amazing. I don’t want anyone but you.

His hand is small but strong. Just the palm-grip it can manage feels like ecstacy through his bloodstream. The worn, dry spots on his fingers hardly chafe at all. In no time Merklich starts dripping into his skin, wet, slick, everything rubbing in like lotion. Return-play is fair-play, he decides, and his hand slips into Rukias’ boxers to wrap around his far more manageably-sized cock, and the little brat moans while still maintaining eye contact. Lewd.

My _good_ boy. I love you. 

Rukias whimpers, and almost immediately comes all over his hand. What else can you expect from a kid? ...is what he’d say, but seeing him flush and shake while _still_ rubbing up against him is quite affecting. What little space there is between them looks like a tipped bowl of half-melted icecream. Except warm. 

Rukias leans in against him and they fall chest to chest, pajamas given up for dead. Grey has always seemed like a cool, collected color to him, especially where eyes are concerned, but as they kiss and embrace and leave their leavings all over each other, he sees something more akin to a warm misty morning than ice.


End file.
